“To her?” He shrugged. “I suppose she wouldn’t think so.”
“But to you, he was.”
“Ah. Old business, long finished. Too tedious for a night such as this.”
“It’s all right if you don’t want to talk about it,” Nell said. “But I admit I’m curious.” She cleared her throat, feeling a touch awkward. Reaching out to run her finger along the edge of the baize, she added, “I grew up thinking my father a farmer from Leicestershire, you see. But I supposed you aren’t the best man to ask about the late earl.”
Simon laid down his cue across the corner of the table. “It is a bit of a tall order, to ask me to speak of him in any measured way.” He turned away to the liquor cabinet, glass clinking as he refilled his whisky and poured another for her. She accepted it with a murmur of thanks.
They leaned against the table and drank, their eyes on the fire burning low in the hearth. Woodsmoke and the scent of oiled leather blended with the rich fumes of the drink in her hand; the silence felt companionable. She’d almost forgotten her curiosity when Simon finally continued.
“I will say this: he was learned. He liked the trappings that came with his station. Ritual, tradition, meant a great deal to him. Manliness,” he said after a brief pause. “Honor, courage. He would have flourished as a soldier—a general, mind you, someone who gave orders rather than took them. But he would have put himself at the front lines, no doubt, and cursed any bullets that dared to strike him.” He hesitated. “I suppose you have that quality from him: very little cows you.”
The compliment startled her, since it was delivered at some price to him: it had required him, in a backhanded sort of way, to compliment her father as well. “Thanks,” she mumbled—fighting a losing battle with a foolish smile, which she directed first toward the malachite mantel, then to the tall brass dogs that guarded the fire screen.
“Your courage is not exactly like his, of course.” Simon spoke in a slow, low voice. “His was—inflexible, you see.” She stole a quick glance at him and saw that he wore a slight frown, a look of concentration. “He had no patience for any way but his own.”
She gathered that he was feeling his way out of the previous moment—trying to retreat from any appearance of kindness toward old Rushden. But he was proceeding carefully in the attempt, lest he wound her by accident in the process.
He was kinder, she saw suddenly, than she’d ever imagined a man like him could be.
She put the glass to her lips but didn’t drink.
She liked this man.
The idea required a long, bracing swallow. Like wasn’t a feeling most people held in high value, but when paired with all else Simon St. Maur kindled in her—attraction, interest, admiration, gratitude—kindness tipped the balance of feeling into something hotter. It kindled a greedy longing that flamed through her body and left her unable to remove her attention from his sharp-boned profile.
All she said was: “Go on.”
Simon nodded absently, his eyes on the glass in his hand. “Cowardice rather fixated him. He was terrified, I think, of being seen as … weak? I’ve no idea why, but, yes, that was his devil. And so he saw weakness everywhere, in the most peculiar places.” He gave her a brief look of significance. “In harmless inclinations. An eye for beauty. An interest in art, in music.”
She nodded to show she understood. “I hear you playing the piano sometimes.” Next to the ballroom was a small room filled with a variety of instruments, one of them a glossy black piano. During her lessons with Palmier, she sometimes heard him playing, a low, melodic counterpoint to Mrs. Hemple’s choppy tunes.
“Yes,” he said. “Your mother, in fact, was my first teacher. She was very talented.”
“Was she?” She gave him a chance to speak, then added tentatively, “You play really nicely.”
He smiled slightly. “Thank you.”
He deserved better. “You play … beautifully.”
His smile turned into a grin as he turned toward her. “Do go on.”
She laughed. “But I mean it,” she said, then hesitated. She didn’t want him to think she’d been spying on him. “A few nights ago, just after I’d had my dinner tray, I heard you. You were playing a piece so sad, it nearly made me weep.” She’d been thinking of Mum, and the music had seemed to reach in her soul and squeeze every part of her that hurt. “It went from very high to very low, all at once—like a heart sinking, breaking.”
As soon as the words were out her mouth, she regretted them, her face turning hot. What claptrap. A heart breaking.
But all he said was: “Ah.” And then he held quiet so long that she thought he’d say no more on it. Their eyes locked; inexplicably, she couldn’t tear her gaze away from his.
“You describe it well,” he said. “I was heartbroken when I wrote it.”
The admission—so unforeseen, so bloody honest—pierced her like a hook. She stared at him.
He’d written that?
An instant later, she realized what it meant. “That woman you said you loved?”
“Yes.” His smile made her decide never to trust his expressions again; this one looked easy and charming, mismatched entirely to what he said next: “She was the daughter of a composer I studied with in Italy. Rushden had cut me off when I went abroad, and I’d assumed him to have washed his hands of me. I learned differently after we became engaged to marry. He—or rather, Grimston, as his henchman—approached the lady with an offer, a tidy sum for ending our connection. Which she accepted.” He shrugged. “I was very young—twenty-one, the age for melodrama. The etude is not particularly good, you understand, but it’s certainly flamboyant. I was thinking of letting …” He gave her a quick smile, and she had the impression that he’d just decided against saying something. “I’m sorry if it made you cry.”
She shook her head. Not important, apology unnecessary. “That’s awful. No wonder you hated the man.”
“Indeed. Although I suppose he thought he was only doing right by the title.”
It seemed out of character for him to make allowances like that. Because she feared it was for her sake, she said, “A title is just a name. Worth nothing against a person’s love.”
He lifted a brow. “Are you an idealist, then?”
What a question for him to ask—and of her, of all people. They were two people thinking to marry on the cold hopes of a fortune. She might have laughed at him if he weren’t regarding her so soberly: as though he was waiting for an answer that would mean something important.
It made her search herself for the truth. “I suppose it depends on what you mean by the word,” she said slowly. “I’ve always been a hand at wanting the impossible.” Windows in the factory workroom. Respect from the labor-mistress and lads on the street. A home of her own, a bit of security. Someplace to be safe. Somebody to love.
Somebody to love her.
“What’s impossible?” he countered. “If we succeed, Nell, what will be impossible for you?”
Gripped by revelation, she stared at him. In one moment, with one small question, he inadvertently had laid it bare: so little of what she wanted could be bought, no matter the size of the fortune coming to her.
A shadow passed over his face. “What?” he asked. “What did I say?”
She shook her head and looked away from his concern. When he laid a gentle hand on her arm, she closed her eyes, torn by twin impulses: to knock his hand away, or to clutch it in her own.
She’d thought it safe to keep company with him as long as they stayed out of a bedroom, but this friendly companionship was just as dangerous—more so, even. He thought he was offering her everything she needed, while in his kind words, his conversation, his laughter, he tempted her with everything she wanted—none of which he’d offered to give. Why would he? No matter where she’d been born, life had led her far from the places where a man like this looked for love.
God above. How stupid, how unforgivably idiotic, to be suddenly and burningly jealous of
a woman whose name she didn’t even know.
She opened her eyes. “Do you think—”
Do you think you could ever love a girl like me?
Only a fool asked such a question when she knew she wouldn’t like the answer.
On a deep breath, she called up a smile. “I could beat you blindfolded,” she said as she put aside her glass. “You should have asked for a handicap.”
And then, retrieving her cue and bending over the table, she knocked off a shot: striking the red ball into his, she sent them both into the top left pocket, while her own went careening into the right. The ten strokes she netted for it gave her the victory.
When she faced him, his amazed expression held none of the disappointment it ought to show. Slowly he set down his glass. “Well done,” he said, and then, shaking his head, he began to laugh. “My God! Nell, I’ve never seen anything to match that!”
She broke into a grin. “Aye, well,” she said, scuffing her foot against the carpet, making a mocking little show of false modesty for him, but only because she knew he’d see through it. “I’ve never been carried out on shoulders, but I’ve been bought a few rounds, let’s just say.”
“I’ll wager you have! Or, no.” He pulled a face, mocking himself, now. “No more wagers with you.”
“Aye, right you are. You’re lucky I only asked for the dress and twenty pounds. With your nonsense about terms, I might have asked for anything. This house, say!”
His smile faded, but his regard did not waver. “Ask for it,” he said. “It’s yours.”
A queer excitement rippled through her stomach. The way he was looking at her …
She cleared her throat. “Enough wagering for the night. I beat you soundly. I reckon you’ve learned your lesson.”
“And yet, as you once observed, I’m a bit of a cheater.” He took up her cue, which she’d laid between them, and put it behind him, the movement precise and deliberate. “You see, I’m going to insist on my five minutes anyway.”
Her body understood before her mind did. It pulsed from head to toe. Yes, she thought, and stepped toward him; and then: No, no, no, and stepped back again. After the mad thoughts she’d just been entertaining, it would be the height of recklessness to put her body to his. If a woman could win love with her body, the world would have no bastards.
But oh, he was so beautiful. As he took the step that closed the distance between them, his slow smile might have lured the angels from heaven, flocking noisily, arms outstretched, happy to burn for him.
“We had an agreement.” She didn’t sound convincing even to herself. “You said you wouldn’t do—”
He laid his fingers over her lips. As easy as that, everything in her—breath, heart, brain—froze. The next second, her senses awoke again, telescoping on that single delicious inch where his skin touched hers. She stood immobile, the table at her back, small shocks radiating from the pit of her stomach.
He leaned forward to press his cheek against her own. In her ear, he whispered, “What mustn’t I do?”
Her mouth went dry. She had no honest answer to give. Do anything, she thought.
With one finger still laid across her lips, he used his other hand to delicately cup the back of her neck. She sucked in a breath as his lips, soft and hot, pressed against the tender skin beneath her ear. “Is this what I shouldn’t do?” he breathed.
The gentle press of his fingertips at her nape, her lips, burned like brands. It wasn’t fear that made her shudder. Everywhere she felt the heat of him, and he was melting her, like flame to pliant wax. “No,” she managed. Do this all you like.
His finger slipped from her mouth. He pulled back to look into her face, his own so close that she could see the shadow cast by his lashes along his cheeks. With a curious, one-sided smile, he returned his finger to her lips, and then, steadily, his eyes daring her to protest, he pushed one finger against the seam, breaching her mouth.
His finger slid in to touch her tongue.
Shock scattered her thoughts. The taste of him sent a pang through her, close to hunger but more frantic, more needy. In all her life, she had never been so hungry for food. Caught in the spell of his eyes, she held very still. Slowly he pushed the finger in to the middle knuckle; as he withdrew, her teeth scraped over his skin. He did it again, invading her with steady, gentle pressure; retreating with grave-eyed concentration. And all she could do was lean against the table—stunned, thrumming with tension. Men did such things? He did such things.
She felt his breath on her cheek, and then, with the tip of his finger still in her mouth, he placed his lips against her chin, sliding them up to nip at her lower lip, and then up yet again, so his tongue licked gently at her upper lip. He traced the underside, played delicately at the corner of her mouth. She inhaled, an involuntarily moan, and he withdrew his finger. The rasp of his breathing filled her ears; and then he cupped her cheek firmly and laid his mouth over her own, angling her head back so his tongue fully penetrated her mouth.
Something snapped in her. Clean and simple. This was simple. Want, and the solution for it: him. She grabbed at his shirtsleeves, then the backs of his arms, desperate to pull him against her. He stepped between her legs, and dimly she felt the cool air as he gathered her skirts up, higher and higher yet. His thigh parted her legs and he moved into the space between them, unyielding in his advance. His hands hooked under her thighs to lift her to the tabletop. With his mouth on hers, she closed her thighs around his narrow hips, so the solid, hardening length of him nudged up against the spot where she was softest.
His kiss offered no mercy. She didn’t want it. She arched upward to the force of his kiss, craving more of the pressure, the grind and thrust as he rolled his hips against her. His hand slipped down to her breast; his thumb drew a light circle around her nipple, once, twice, and her hands, somehow now on his back, dug in to demand more. His fingers firmed, pulling, tugging, rubbing her nipple as his arm slipped up her back, making a long, steady brace for her spine as he lowered her backward, slowly, laying her almost tenderly against the baize tabletop.
A soft click sounded: in the periphery of her vision, she saw a cue fall against the table, then slide slowly out of sight to thump onto the carpet.
Irrelevant, unimportant. Her hands scratched across his nape into his hair, her fingers twining through the thick, soft strands. A low noise came from him. He moved against her sinuously, his hips arching and pressing, making her gasp as their lips met again. She could no longer govern herself; she twisted up against him without conscious intention, shuddering as his hand found her ankle, slid open-palmed up her calf, over her knee, his hot skin burning through the thin layer of silk until it found the gap between garter and combination and closed in a firm grip on her thigh.
Harder, she thought. Being gripped, being held, being directed—he nudged her thigh, opened her wider to him—felt good, right, in a way that she had never imagined. She made a noise of protest when his body withdrew from hers, but then his hand came between them, down low, brushing against her. A grunt burst from her. Her body wasn’t hers; it bucked up against the heel of his palm to show its approval.
“Yes,” he said, his voice hot, rough. His mouth moved down her neck, her chest, and his hands seemed to be everywhere, sliding and molding and shaping and stroking, now her tits, and now, sliding along the baize beneath her, to cup her arse, to squeeze and lift. Then he took hold of her neckline, pulling it down; she heard fabric rip, felt his clever fingers freeing her breast of the corset. His head slipped down farther yet, the hot, hot wetness of his mouth closing over her nipple. His teeth, God above, he was like a devil above her, a dark-haired demon who knew exactly where to touch, how to suck and lick her; there was no part of her not throbbing for him.
His hand delved below again, probing, testing; a high sound broke from her throat as he found the spot where her pleasure concentrated. As he stroked, hidden parts of her opened and clutched for hope of him, for hope of that long, hard erec
tion she’d felt against her before. It wasn’t enough, or it was too much, this torment he worked with his hand. She twisted and his mouth returned to hers, his hand hooking in her hair, tightening to the edge of pain. His kiss grew ferocious, his hand between her legs moving insistently, issuing a demand that grew harder and faster, drawing her out, tighter, higher, to the edge of—
The sensation burst over her, rippled and purled through her, pleasure so intense that she cried out. With the flat of his palm he cupped her until she eased, and then his kiss grew gentler, and his mouth broke from hers to wander her face, to trace the line of her jaw, until she put her arms around him tightly, and he turned his face into her hair, his ragged breath loud in her ear.
Her hand traced the long line of his back, skated the curve of his spine, reached the hard muscle of his buttocks, which tightened beneath her fingers. The feel of him stirred her anew.
This wasn’t like hunger at all, not if it could be roused again so quickly after being fully satisfied. She shifted beneath him, pushed up against him, amazed at herself as she issued the silent demand.
His hoarse laugh warmed her ear. That laughter made her go still. She heard in it a wealth of knowledge she didn’t yet share.
“Tomorrow,” he said as he lifted his head to look into her face. The curve of his mouth bespoke satisfaction—and a promise he underscored by the light touch he traced over her bottom lip. “I have the license,” he said, his slumberous gaze intent on hers. “We’ll be wed, and then …” His smile tipped into a lazy angle. “You’ll decide which you like better: this table, or my bed.”
Simon’s way to the wedding led through a house that appeared deserted. Rushden’s ghost was no doubt raging about the rafters: the coming ceremony would, in most respects, seem a perfect specimen of revenge on him. Had it not been for his shenanigans, Simon would have married long ago, and been unavailable to missing daughters who turned up in the night.
Alas, Rushden had offered a bribe and Maria had taken it, removing herself from Simon’s reach.